Crispbread Pagoda - Momus

And I will build

A pagoda made of crisp bread

My window sill

Is getting wet

And I am trying to think of nothing

Trying to think of no-one

But it’s proving rather hard

You are the raindrop in the cloud

The rock in the rolling avalanche

And I am having lunch

The sound of rain

And eleven types of thunder

Wobbling begins

On the fourth floor of my pagoda

And there is splashing from the gutter

Gurgling round the house

But I’m trying to block it out

There’s been no landslide at all

An old supporting wall

Collapsed and blocked the road

My trembling hands

A pagoda made of crispbread

This endless rain

Cancelling time

A careless fit of coughing

My pagoda is collapsing

It seems to take an age

Like a culture in decline

A paleolithic ram’s horn

That now begins to sound

And I am trying to think of nothing

Trying to think of no-one

But it’s proving rather hard

You are the raindrop in the cloud

The rock in the rolling avalanche

And I am having lunch